When Your Faith is Nowhere to Be Found

When icy evil chills you to the bone,

May like-hearted friends

blanket you and

thaw your frigid soul.

When patriarchal pushback pummels your peace,

May Divine Mother tend you

as you tantrum your tears.

May you imbibe her ferocious kindness -

A power greater than

fear, greed, and grievance combined.

When you find yourself somewhere under the rainbow

and can’t find a way to get over,

May the bluebird of gratitude still find you and

sing you into wholeness.

When your faith is nowhere to be found,

May that which your faith seeks find you;

For you are already and always found

in that which you ultimately seek,

which is who you ultimately are.

And when hope is dim and your vision dimmer,

And the way forward seems behind you,

May the one light shine your way

into a timeless future

Beyond polarities

Beyond even death

Where Love forever knows you as itself.

I am a Puddle

Late summer rain soothes

sunburnt topsoil

with a foretaste of winter.

Overnight, the drip, drip, drip

pools together

in a stone walkway’s sagging middle.

The liquid surface mirrors a single

spectabalis bloom,

monochroming its magenta glory

into humorless gray.

Who am I? The flower or its reflection?

Slowing down to the speed of drizzle,

I ponder what of me is just a

temporary reflection.

I am the puddle.

I am provisional, a process in the process

of changing, moment to moment. Every life-drop

forever reshapes the contours of my brief reservoir,

an ever-morphing flow that has no fixed essence.

Someday, I too will be drawn up, drop by drop, into the heavens.

The confused puddle sees itself as static, separate, and in need of constant protection.

As evaporation runs its course, anxious puddles fear the unrelenting sun’s upward pull.

The awakened puddle accepts what is, and

surrendering into the firmament’s cloud nursery,

Knows itself to be eternal.

Geese in Formation

Geese are flying south for winter,

Honking air traffic control signals,

Exhorting weary ones to pick up the pace.

How do they find home

without a strategic plan and GPS?

What Invisible Knowing

knows The Way?

What Archer forms the squabble into a single arrow,

and hurls the gaggle into the promise of the empty sky?

As my winter approaches,

Unknowing becomes

the only reliable compass.

My weary wings

surrender to the sky-wedge

of Mystery

and find their rhythm.

Nimbus striving eases into cumulus clarity,

and the flight path of soul truth

comes without effort,

as I glide through the full emptiness,

guided by a Grace I’ve never known

flying

into the headwinds.